


Power of Soul

by LaughableLament



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Angst, Community: spn-masquerade, Embedded Images, F/M, First Time, Het and Slash, M/M, Prophecy, Soulmates, Spoilers through season 10
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-09-27
Updated: 2015-09-27
Packaged: 2018-04-23 12:18:47
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,482
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4876534
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/LaughableLament/pseuds/LaughableLament
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>“Prophecy is like a half-trained mule. It looks as though it might be useful, but the moment you trust in it, it kicks you in the head.”</p><p>-Tyrion Lannister, from George R. R. Martin’s <i>A Dance with Dragons</i></p>
            </blockquote>





	Power of Soul

**Author's Note:**

> Written for [this prompt](http://spn-masquerade.livejournal.com/6017.html?thread=1947777#t1947777), part of Supernatural Masquerade Round 3.
> 
> World-class beta, plus the gorgeous Joshua tree photo by **[crowroad](http://archiveofourown.org/users/crowroad/pseuds/crowroad)**. Thank you, my friend. You are amazing.

** **

 

**1994**

Sam frowned at his brother but nodded. Ferris wheels were boring anyway, especially crappy county fair ones. Dean’s grin glowed in the spookhouse black lights. Arm around – Kimmy? Kami? – the girl of the week, he sauntered off across the midway.

“Bring me a funnel cake!” He shot back over his shoulder.

“Yeah, yeah…” Sam walked the other way, shuffled toward the concessions. Passed a ring toss and a shooting gallery. Stopped to watch a couple of frat boys test their strength with a mallet. Neither managed to ring the bell, and Sam cleared out when one started making a stink about it being rigged.

Barkers tempted him toward show tents. Snake charmer, probably using a rubber snake. A “Counting Crow,” (yuk-yuk,) Avian Math Whiz. Card tricks. Belly dancers. And, at the end of the row, a plain canvas tent with a flap tied back. Hand-drawn poster promising: _Learn your destiny! Mama Grace knows all!_

Sam shook his head. Dad always griped about carnival psychics, “whores and hustlers.” He wondered why this Grace wasn’t out here drumming up business. He saw inside; she wasn’t with a mark.

“Child…” Thick singsong voice stretched it out to three lazy syllables. Sam squinted. She hadn’t yelled. He shouldn’t have heard her. Pff, whatever. In his life that barely rated as weird.

“Sam…” _Okay, that’s weirder._ “Winchester…”

He swallowed.

The woman appeared in the open flap. Didn’t look like any so-called psychic he’d ever seen. A plain blue dress hung past her knees. No scarves, no crystals, no turquoise jewelry. White hair fell to her waist, but her face didn’t look a day older than thirty.

“Come inside, Sam.” His name rolled around on her tongue like molasses. _Siaum._ “You have a destiny, child. Shines like a lighthouse.”

“Thank you, ma’am, but, no.” Sam firmed his face. No chance this – whatever she was – would get the satisfaction of knowing she’d freaked him out. “I don’t have money.”

“It’s on the house, sweetheart.” She smiled, eyes crinkled like Dean’s. “Soul like yours? A right treat. Please. Come in.”

Sam realized he’d been drifting slowly closer to the tent. He smelled incense, dark and spicy. Under that, a coppery whiff of blood. He froze.

“You ain’t afraid of a little blood are you?”

“How did you – ”

Mama Grace laughed, throaty and deep. She reached for him, palm lightly bandaged. “It’s mine, child, and freely given. I promise.”

Sam’s arm rose, almost on its own, and he took her hand. Inside, thick candles of purple and gold cast wavering shadows against the walls. A knockoff Persian rug spread across the ground. Mama Grace took a seat on a cushion, facing an altar cloth scattered with yarrow. Sam sat across from her.

She reached out, palms up, crooked her fingers. “Let’s see them hands, child.”

Sam obeyed. Her fingers brushed his knuckles. He expected the usual cold-read bullshit: _I sense a name. Something with a J?_

Instead, her eyes fell closed. She drew in a breath through her nose. “Powerful forces churn around you, child. Black and yellow. Blood and flame.” Her grip tightened. “Beware the viper hatched from stone. But seek shade under the Joshua tree, for its roots run deep.”

She raised her eyes. Surprised smile twitched up her mouth.

“You have a soul-mate. Find the one and save your brother’s life.”

Sam blinked. In line for a funnel cake. Not even a clue how he got there.

“Sammy!” Dean. Frantic. Voice sliced right through the noise.

“Dean?”

And just like that he materialized. “Where the hell’ve you been, man? Scared the shit outta me.”

“I was…” Sam kicked the dirt. “I was with the fortune teller.”

Dean’s brow scrunched up. “Sam. We’re in the Bible Belt. They’d run a fortune teller out on the rails in these parts.”

“She’s right back there.” Sam turned. And had to suppress a violent shiver. The line of show tents ended with _Canton Bell’s House of Curiosities_. No Mama Grace. No sign she’d ever been there. He stumbled when Dean chucked his arm.

“Fuck, man. No need to lie to me.”

Sam wished the ground would swallow him. “I…” He could’ve told his brother everything. And Dean would’ve believed him, eventually, but… “I’m sorry.”

“Hey, kid. You gonna order?”

“Yeah.” Dean stepped to the window, arm hooked around Sam’s neck. “Two funnel cakes. Extra sugar.”

The greasy-looking kid behind the counter rolled his eyes.

 

**⁂**

**2004**

Jess rolled in her sleep, hair tickling Sam’s nose. He tried to feel not like a creeper, just watching. Lips slightly parted, lashes spread across her cheeks. Her chest rose and fell, hypnotic.

God he missed his brother.

Not that he regretted Stanford. A guy could get used to washing his clothes without scrubbing out bloodstains. Storing his books on an actual shelf. Sleeping in the same room, same bed, same sheets every night. And he loved Jessica. She made him laugh. Dragged him to live music shows and off-campus parties. Sat with him, sometimes, in silence. No need to fill up space with empty words.

But her quiet breathing and delicate sounds just made him think about chainsaw snores and deep grunts. Her soft hands made him think of rough ones. Blue eyes –

 _Stop it, Sam._ He had to do this. Had to have this.

_“You have a soul-mate…”_

Fourteen. Freshman physical science. Sam had learned about supermassive black holes, balls of compressed stardust, whole galaxies swirling around them. _That’s my brother,_ he’d thought. Everybody fell for Dean, got trapped in his orbit. Flawless face and deadly grace that somehow read as harmless tempered with his easy smile. Everything spun around him. Especially Sam.

He was so screwed, a total freak. Gone on his brother and five years, a few thousand miles hadn’t broken his fever. Dean still raged in his blood like a drug-resistant germ.

He remembered. Stepping out on that porch, feeling the door slam, hearing glass break against a wall he’d never see inside again.

Leaving had hurt like swallowing scrap metal. And Dean’s life depended on it.

Jess stirred again. Squirmed little-spoon style into the curve of Sam’s body. He slipped an arm around her, buried his face in her hair. Filled his nose with the honeysuckle smell of her conditioner. A soft hum and she rolled her hips into him. Once. Twice. His dick twitched and she giggled. Rubbed against him harder.

Sam slid his hand under her cropped t-shirt. Stroked gentle circles over her breast until he felt her nipple harden. Jess reached back, palm flat on his hip. Her nails teased the hem of his boxers. Sam kissed his way down the side of her face. Paused to tug at her earlobe with his teeth. Jess groaned. Turned. Wrapped a leg around him and drew him in for a kiss.

Sam petted her side. Squeezed her ass. Hands tangled in each other’s hair and tongues in each other’s mouths. Lazy and slow. Sam lost himself. Burned. More than he’d dared to hope for and better than he deserved.

Jess rolled him onto his back. Dragged the waistband of his boxers down and pulled her thong to one side. Sam moaned as she sank down onto him. Grinned when she bent for a kiss. She rocked above him, hands on his chest and head thrown back. She blew him away like this. Lower lip between her teeth. Sweat shining in streaks of streetlight through the blinds.

“God, Sam.” She crashed into him, shuddering. Head under his chin and clenching hard around him. Sam wrapped hands around her waist and slammed up into her. Rode her aftershocks. Growled low and came inside her, stuttering thrusts that bounced her almost off him.

He held her close until she rolled out of bed. Paused to shake her ass at him on her way to the bathroom. Sam laughed, full-throated joy.

For a minute, anyway.

Jess tucked herself back in, face against Sam’s shoulder, hand on his heart. Sam stared at the ceiling a while, imagined the rumble of a small-block Chevy four barrel. Let the memory lull him to sleep.

 

**⁂**

**2008**

_Jessica burned._

Sam tossed another shovelful of dirt over his brother’s butchered body.

_Madison begged._

He wiped sweat with the back of his hand.

_At least Sarah got away. And that preacher’s daughter… Lori? God, what if one of them…_

_Stop it, Sam._

He jammed the shovel’s blade in the muddy spring soil.

_Doesn’t matter._

_Too late._

Bobby spoke up. “You want me to dig a while, son?”

“I got it.” Sam wiped his face again. “He’s my brother. My responsibility.”

“You sure we shouldn’t, y’know – ”

“No!” Sam winced. Hadn’t meant to yell. “I’m sorry, Bobby. I just – ”

“I know, son.”

“I’ll get him back. He’s gonna need…”

Bobby clapped him on the shoulder. Squeezed hard. “If anybody can, Sam…”

“Thank you.”

Two hours later he was shitcan drunk in a recliner at the Fiesta Motel. Wild fuckin’ Turkey. _Dean would be so proud._ Bile and whiskey bubbled in his throat. He swirled the booze in its bottle. Swallowed long.

The chair squalled miserably as Sam leaned forward, dropped his head. “I’m sorry, Dean. I am so, so sorry.” Tears fell, at last. “I fucked up, man. Got so obsessed with getting you out of that fuckin’ deal…”

_“Find the one…”_

He’d burned the whole last year on psychics, mystics, and hoodoo queens. Not like he’d had time for an eHarmony profile. What would he say anyway? _“Recovering psychic seeks soul-mate. Must be willing to road trip indefinitely. Believe in monsters. Battle Hell.”_ He made a choked sound. How was he ever supposed to meet a woman who –

Oh, God. What if Bela…?

His brother despised her and hey, fair enough. God knew she hadn’t done them any favors. The rabbit’s foot, the Hand of Glory, never mind the Colt. Maybe worst of all, she’d swiped Dean’s car. Sam shuddered, flashing back to Gertrude Case.

But that graveyard in Black Rock. Stench of burnt fur in the air and his shoulder screaming where she’d shot him. When she snaked those scratch-offs and drove off waving? He’d cracked the hell up. Couldn’t help himself.

He pictured the crooked smile she’d flashed him in Biggerson’s, green eyes sparkling and fake black hair. Dean’s, _“Dude. If you were ever gonna get lucky…”_     

And those dreams.

What if he’d managed to pry her eyes off Dean? He could have loved her, maybe saved her. What if he could have saved them both?

His shoulders quaked. Stomach clenched. He dropped the liquor, let it spill out on the floor. Didn’t bother to wipe his face, his nose. Sobbed. Desperate to fix it. Bring back the brother he’d failed. Lost.

He lurched to his feet as the door banged open. Blonde girl and a balding man burst through. Sam staggered and drew Ruby’s knife.

The girl snatched it away. “Thanks for keeping this warm for me, Sam.”

“Ruby _…_ ”

 

**⁂**

**2012**

Sam eased the bathroom door shut, flipped on the light. He barely recognized himself in the flickering fluorescent. When did he get so old? Not even thirty yet but his eyes were ninety. Dark circles. Forehead wrinkles. More gray hair than Dad had when he died.

He fought down the urge to punch through the mirror, shatter the glass and his knuckles both. He’d be the one who’d have to patch it all up anyway.

“Sam?” Amelia’s voice, thick with sleep.

“Uh, yeah. Just getting cleaned up.” He turned on the cold tap. Splashed his face. Icy water pricked like needles into his skin. He took a deep breath. Flipped off the light and felt his way back to the bed.

“I thought maybe you’d left,” she mumbled as he crawled between the sheets.

Sam slid his arm behind her neck. “I wouldn’t do that.”

She scooted closer. Hand fell warm in the middle of his chest. “You okay?”

 _God no._ “Yeah. I’m good.”

“Me too.”

The dog whimpered from his spot on the couch. He sounded pained and Sam felt him. This life wasn’t his. And this woman was no more his soul-mate than the dog was. Not that it mattered. Not anymore.

Nothing had mattered since he’d summoned Crowley. Threatened, cajoled, even offered to deal but the King of Hell swore up and down he wasn’t holding Dean.

“Still. Can you bring him back?”

“From Heaven? Tell me, Moose. Why would you do such a thing to your brother?”

 _Because I failed him. Again. Because I have to make it up to him._ Sam hadn’t even looked for his soul-mate. Not in years. Once Cas pulled Dean out of the Pit, Sam had thought it was over. Dean had angel protection. Didn’t need his little brother to save him anymore.

And Crowley was right. Sam would’ve never forgiven Dean if their roles were reversed. Leaving Heaven fucked people up. He’d seen it: Adam, Samuel.

“My advice to you,” Crowley had offered, “is to climb in that car, drive until you’re out of gas, and get on with your life where you land.”

It hadn’t gone down quite like that. Pretty close though. Kermit wasn’t bad, big enough to stay under the radar but small enough that Sam felt safe, -ish. As safe as he'd ever felt.

And he could love Amelia. Smart. Sharp-tongued but sweet. They could paper over the holes in each other. Build something together. Sam brushed her hair back from her face.

Her eyes flicked up. “So you’re staying?”

He grinned. “Is that an invitation?”

Amelia swatted him lightly. “Haven’t kicked you out so far.”

“Well, with that ringing endorsement…” He kissed her forehead. She tilted her chin and he kissed her again, soft lips and soft laughter.

“Good night, Sam.”

No. Not good. But maybe good enough.

 

**⁂**

**2015**

Sam’s ears rang with Dean’s full-bore shot to the side of his head. For a second he wondered how he hadn’t passed out. Only a second, though. Two more knocks and he went down. Done. Dean didn’t pull his punches, not even a little, but –

“You'll never, ever hear me say that you – the real you – is anything but good.”

Sam turned away. Spat blood from his busted mouth. Tears spilled down his face. He steeled himself. “But you’re right.” He understood.

Every time he’d lost Dean – to the Trickster, Hell, the Mark – he’d lost his compass. Of course he had.

“You have to be stopped.” _Saved._ “At any cost.”

At last, he _understood._

“Do it.”

“Close your eyes.”

No. He wanted the last thing he saw to be his brother’s face. Even twisted in pain. He deserved that. Perfect portrait of all Sam’s failures.

“Sammy, close your eyes.”

He’d missed so many chances.

_“…save your brother’s life.”_

“Wait.” Sam dug in his pocket. Pulled out the pictures he’d saved from the bunker floor. “Take these.”

He laid them out. “And one day, when you find your way back – ”

Mom and Dean, her arm around him. “ – let these be your guide.”

All three of them. One of those precious hundred and eighty-four days they were whole as a family. “And they can help you remember what it was to be good. What it was to love.”

He closed his eyes. Felt the air displacement. Last thing he’d ever feel, he figured, but –

Sam’s eyes opened in time to see Dean bury Death’s scythe in his chest. The former Horseman, force of nature, end of all things, turned to ash.

They ran. Took shelter in the only home Sam ever knew, ever wanted. He got that now. And he meant to spend the rest of his life – assuming it lasted longer than the next five minutes – making it up to his brother.

Worse than an idiot. Twenty-one years and he’d looked everywhere except right in fucking front of him.

Dean got it.

_“I can’t do this alone… I don’t want to.”_

Always had.

_“We’re all we’ve got. More than that. We keep each other human.”_

And all Dean did, all he’d ever done, was pull Sam’s ass out of the fire.

_“There ain’t no me if there ain’t no you.”_

While Sam screwed up. Ran away. Drank blood. Hit a dog. And people thought he was the smart one.

“Dean.”

The Darkness advanced.

“Dean!”

His brother slammed the accelerator. Back tire spun. Useless. Sam grabbed a fistful of jacket.

Dean’s hand came up, covered Sam’s. He grinned. “Looks like we’re gonna get the _Thelma and Louise_ ending after all, huh?”

Sam’s eyes went wide. Dean squeezed his hand. And Sam broke into hysterical laughter. God bless his big-mouthed, blustering brother. And yeah, if they died right here, side by side in the car, well… At least Dean’s soul, _their_ souls, were intact.

Dean shot him an eyebrow. “Joke’s not that damn funny, Sam.”

He was contagious though. Dean started chuckling, forehead scrunched and shaking his head. The cloud, blacker than demon smoke, swallowed the car. Dean cut on the headlights, dashboard indicators cast his face in an eerie glow.

 

**⁂**

**NOW**

Sam stirs when the engine cuts off.

Dean backhands his arm. “Get the bags. I’ll get us a room.”

Sam’s jaw cracks on a monster yawn. He climbs out, stretches. Joints pop, muscles protest. Dry here. Colorado last Sam knew. Must be New Mexico. Arizona, maybe.

He rubs his eyes. Blunders his way to the trunk and keys it open. Clothes, weapons, laptop. When he shuts the lid, the motel’s buzzing sign comes into view. Sam blinks.

The Joshua Tree.

“Yo, Sammy!”

“Uh. Yeah.” He shakes off his shock.

“Come on, man.” Dean waves a key card in the air.

Sam nods. Smile spreads across his face and to his toes. He hustles after Dean, through the lobby, down the hall. Last room on the right, next to the fire exit.

Dean claps his hands once. “’Kay. So-uh. I’ll go get takeout, some beer – ”

“Make it whiskey.”

Dean flashes a surprised smirk. “Okaaay. Somethin’ you wanna tell me, Sammy?”

“Yeah. There is.” Sam drops the bags. “And it’s a whiskey talk.”

Dean’s mouth draws down, but he shrugs. “If you say so.”

A quick shower and Sam finds _Grosse Pointe Blank_ on cable. Settles in. Thinks through what he needs to say.

“Aw I love this movie!” Dean chucks a bag in Sam’s direction. Pulls beers from a six pack and passes one over.

Sam fishes out a grilled chicken and tosses the rest to Dean’s bed.

“Ooo check this out this is so badass.” Like they haven’t seen this movie fifty times. John Cusack kills the hit man with a pen. Dean shovels a handful of fries and Sam grins. “What?”

“You… you’re _you,_ man. I can’t be happy?”

Dean’s eyebrows twitch. “Oh sure, Sammy. World’s goin’ all to Hell again. Or worse. But hey. Dean Winchester’s back to his old self. Everybody have a party.”

“Dean, stop.” Sam drains his beer. Hits the mini-fridge for another round and grabs the whiskey. “You?”

“Hit me.”

Sam pours, three fingers each. “Cheers.”

Dean nods. Downs his booze in one gulp and looks back at the TV. Sam looks at Dean, laughing with his mouth full. Farting, burping, scratching his balls. His brother. Free of the Mark and by his side.

Years peel away. Sam opens places in himself he’s had on lockdown half his life. Dan Aykroyd cackles onscreen and Dean cackles along. Now and then his eyes flick over. Kind of a, puzzled smile, a head shake. John Cusack and Minnie Driver cruise into the sunset.

“So.” Dean clicks off the TV. “You-uh, wanted to talk about somethin’?”

Sam laughs, wide-eyed. “Ah, yeah. Surprised you’re bringing it up though.”

“You been givin’ me googly eyes since the parking lot, man. Kinda freakin’ me out.”

 _You ain’t seen nothing yet._ Sam breathes, swings his legs off the bed. “Dean.” He could open with –

_So. You know how you always say I’m shitty with women?_

_Hey, uh, remember that time we drank PBR in Heaven?_

“When I was in sixth grade, you stole a car and took me and some girl to a county fair.”

Dean scrunches his brows. “Okay, random.”

“You ditched me to make out with her on the Ferris wheel.”

Dean shrugs. “Sounds like me.”

“I got – ” Sam swallows. “There was – ” No good way to say it. “I received a prophecy.”

Dean chokes a little. “A prophecy. From what, a carnival psychic? Come on, Sam. You know those bitches are – ”

“Hustlers and whores, I know.” Sam throws back a shot. “This was different.”

His brother shoots him a _bullshit_ look.

“For one, she didn’t charge me.” He studies Dean’s face. “And she had real magic. Powerful.” He lays it out. Her voice, her lack of pretense. Her disappearance after he – teleported? He guesses? – out of her tent.

“She knew about Meg. And Yellow Eyes. Mom and Jess.” Sam fails to keep the waver out of his voice. “Pretty sure the ‘serpent hatched from stone’ was Ruby.”

“Jesus, Sam.”

“And she said – ” He pauses. Waits for his brother to meet his eyes. “She said I have a soul-mate.”

Dean squints.

“And if I found – ” _him? you?_ “If I found ‘the one’ it would save your life.”

“Little late for that, ain’t it?” Dean takes a long belt of whiskey.

“You’re still here,” Sam murmurs.

“There a point to all this?”

“She said, ‘take shelter under the Joshua Tree.’”

“And?”

Sam slides a key card off the nightstand and holds it up.

“’S a coincidence, Sam. Come on.”

“I don’t think so.” Sam lets that hang. Then, “Tell me something. Yesterday. Why didn’t you…? Why’d you change your mind?”

Dean blows out his cheeks. “I dunno, man. I guess… I just couldn’t.”

“Why?”

“What are you, four?”

“Tell me why.”

“Because we’re family! Okay? ’Cause protecting you’s been drilled into me from as far back as I can remember. Because losing you is like – ”

“Losing half your soul?” There. He’d put it out there.

A/C kicks on. Rattles like a dying man. Other than that the room stays silent.

Dean picks at a thread on the bedspread. “Yeah.” Never even glances over. “Ain’t like it’s the news. Hell. Ash told us. Flat out.”

“Why didn’t you say anything?”

“Are you kidding me?” Dean looks up at last, eyes flashing. “We’re brothers! And yeah. I mean, we’ve been pretty fucked up since forever but this?” He gestures between them. “This is _supremely_ fucked up.”

Sam nods. “So what do you wanna do?”

“Right now I kinda wanna puke my guts out and pretend this never happened.”

Sam laughs in spite of himself. “And how’s that worked out for us so far?”

Dean cocks his head, grudging agreement. “What do _you_ wanna do?”

 _Now or never._ Sam moves. Perches on Dean’s bed. Fingers behind his brother’s neck, pulses racing. “Honestly? I don’t know. But I think we should – ”

“Shut up, Sam.” Dean kisses him. Soft. Desert air and too much booze, dry lips. Catching and tugging. Pressing harder, lightest suction and –

Alarm bells clang in Sam’s head. Old habits. _Brother. Wrong. Freak._ But the rest of him rejoices, decompresses like a recoil spring.

They separate, breathing heavy.

Wary eyes. “You sure about this, Sam? ’Cause – ”

He launches across his brother’s lap. Mauls his mouth. Sam groans. Bangs his knees on the headboard. Dean strokes his back, gropes his ass. Hips rise up to meet him, hint of friction and Sam gasps. Dean nips his jaw. Bruises his neck.

“Oh, God, _fuck_ , Dean…”

“Sammy.” Ragged. Wrecked. Fingers skate Sam’s waistband. Palms up his sides.

Sam breathes in, whiskey and road sweat. Lingering onion. Pulls at clothes. Dean’s shirt, his fly.

“Whoa-ho. Easy, tiger.”

“Blow me.”

Dean flashes his tongue. Hisses, “Yeah.” Grips him, tips them sideways. Comes up kneeling between Sam’s legs. Strips his shirt and tugs at Sam’s. “Off.”

Sam drags the faded cotton over his head.

“Sammy, Sammy.” Dean cocks an eyebrow. “If I’da known this’d make you shut up and take orders I’da tried it years ago.”

“Thought you were gonna blow me,” Sam challenges. “Or you all talk?”

Dean pitches forward. Blankets Sam’s body in freckled skin and straining muscles. “You think I’m that easy?” Kisses Sam all over. Eyelids, cheeks, hairline, nose.

Sam jams his hand in Dean’s shorts. Burning and damp. “Know damn well you are.” Open zipper bites Sam’s wrist.

He comes alive under his brother. Dean tongues his collarbone. Knots uncoil. Thumbs his hips. Creases unfold. Sam arches hard into the touches.

“For fuck’s sake, man, come on.”

His brother smirks against his ribs. Dives lower, nibbles along Sam’s abs. Laps at his navel, which fucking tickles and makes him curse until finally, _finally,_ Dean hooks his fingers under Sam’s sweats and tugs them down. First searing press of those lips and Sam damn near comes right there. Has to grab himself and squeeze.

Dean, the fucker, laughs. But he’s shaky with, “Wow, man. Didn’t peg you for a two-pump chump.”

“Didn’t peg you for a dirty tease.” Shakier.

Dean’s eyes flutter and he wraps that fucking mouth around Sam’s cock. Tongue flicks along the ridge, curls down the shaft. Busy hands pet his thighs, squeeze his balls.

“Dean.” He’s _so_ not gonna last. “Dean, please.”

His brother looks up through his lashes.

Fucking winks.

And Sam explodes. Bucks so hard he halfway levitates. Scalding splashes up Sam’s belly. Dean pulls back, takes Sam in his fist and –

“Fuck… Sammy…”

He opens his eyes. Dean kneels above him, jacking and spilling. Quaking muscles and glistening cheeks. Divine and obscene. Sam shudders.

 

**⁂**

“Child…”

Sam bolts awake. Extricates himself from his brother, his bed. Picks up his Taurus.

“Come on back now, sweetheart.”

He follows the voice. Through the door, instead of chipped paint and worn carpet, a midway. His t-shirt glows in the spookhouse black lights.

Sam runs. Past a ring toss and a shooting gallery. Past frat boys testing their strength. Barkers tempt him toward show tents. Hand drawn poster promises: _Learn your destiny! Mama Grace knows all!_

He throws open the flap and sees –

Him. Eleven years old and facing an altar cloth scattered with yarrow. Mama Grace tilts her head, beckoning. He stands behind his younger self.

“Save your brother’s life and save the world, Sam Winchester.” She nods at the boy he was. Sam takes a step –

In line for a funnel cake. Half a lifetime of memories, things yet to come.

“Sammy!” Dean. Frantic.

“Dean?”

“Where the hell’ve you been, man? Scared the shit outta me.”

“I was…” He stares at his brother. Feels a pull. _Supermassive black hole,_ his new knowledge supplies. “I was right here, dumbass. Where were you?”

“Language, Sam.”

He grins.

“Hey, kid. You gonna order?”

“Yeah.” Dean steps to the window, arm hooked around Sam’s neck. “Two funnel cakes. Extra sugar.”

Sam roots against his brother’s chest. Dean squeezes harder.


End file.
